flowers for Gael; war with palestine
I've been fortunate this summer, and now work as a story editor for a political film called 'Hunting Al-Qaeda.' Underneath the pride of my work I have an eerie feeling that something isn't quite right. Everything that rises must fall (but is that true?), and I know I am about to face a dilemma.
The feeling has been creeping toward the surface since Burning Man, where I met an ex-commander in the Israli Army who had become a pacifist. He was young and interested in me and we talked about the war with Palestine. It was mid-day three weeks ago: a sandstorm was hitting the camps, and not having any goggles, we ran into his tent to wait out the weather. We sat cross legged, facing each other. I asked him to recount war stories, which so few soldiers do openly. 'You really want to hear them?' He asked. 'Yes,' I said, 'I really do.'
His story was pellucid and revealed parts of him I hadn't yet noticed. He explained he had been a strategist in charge of tanks, and taught soldiers how to fight without himself actually fighting. But in the Iraeli Army there is a mandatory two month service of combat, and he was eventually called upon near the end of his term.
He had 'three stories,' he said, and presented them in a way that suggested he had thought of them over and over. To be honest I don't fully remember two of his stories, as he didn't explain them linearly, but jumped back and forth from different aspects. One illustrated his team killed and mangled by an attack upon their tank, and the other I don't remember at all-- looking back, I'm not sure he ever got to it.
I remember the second story: his team was posted at the separation wall between Irael and Palestine, where they were to control the border and check entering civilians. Weaponry is sometimes smuggled into Israel through ambulances, and every ambulance traveling to an Israeli hospital must be examined upon entry.
One day an ambulance approached the wall. Inside was a 13 year-old girl who had suffered a head wound, and the driver explained she would die if she didn't receive immediate medical attention. My friend went round to open the back doors, and sure enough he found a young girl unconscious and bleeding. He became upset and ordered the ambulance be allowed through without search, but his subordinates refused to adhere. He began yelling, a fight broke out, and a superior was called to punish him. The ambulance was stripped, no weapons were found, and the girl passed away.
Afterward he told me he didn't believe there was a solution to the war. Having felt differently at that moment, I lectured him though I knew I hadn't experienced the war first hand, and didn't, in reality, know what to feel, or have a right to express my beliefs. He was distraught, I felt ashamed, and by the time I woke up next day with the aim of apologizing, he had left.
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In a respect, this has nothing to do with my life right now. In another, it has a lot to do with my life: thin threads and thin threads.
The feeling has been creeping toward the surface since Burning Man, where I met an ex-commander in the Israli Army who had become a pacifist. He was young and interested in me and we talked about the war with Palestine. It was mid-day three weeks ago: a sandstorm was hitting the camps, and not having any goggles, we ran into his tent to wait out the weather. We sat cross legged, facing each other. I asked him to recount war stories, which so few soldiers do openly. 'You really want to hear them?' He asked. 'Yes,' I said, 'I really do.'
His story was pellucid and revealed parts of him I hadn't yet noticed. He explained he had been a strategist in charge of tanks, and taught soldiers how to fight without himself actually fighting. But in the Iraeli Army there is a mandatory two month service of combat, and he was eventually called upon near the end of his term.
He had 'three stories,' he said, and presented them in a way that suggested he had thought of them over and over. To be honest I don't fully remember two of his stories, as he didn't explain them linearly, but jumped back and forth from different aspects. One illustrated his team killed and mangled by an attack upon their tank, and the other I don't remember at all-- looking back, I'm not sure he ever got to it.
I remember the second story: his team was posted at the separation wall between Irael and Palestine, where they were to control the border and check entering civilians. Weaponry is sometimes smuggled into Israel through ambulances, and every ambulance traveling to an Israeli hospital must be examined upon entry.
One day an ambulance approached the wall. Inside was a 13 year-old girl who had suffered a head wound, and the driver explained she would die if she didn't receive immediate medical attention. My friend went round to open the back doors, and sure enough he found a young girl unconscious and bleeding. He became upset and ordered the ambulance be allowed through without search, but his subordinates refused to adhere. He began yelling, a fight broke out, and a superior was called to punish him. The ambulance was stripped, no weapons were found, and the girl passed away.
Afterward he told me he didn't believe there was a solution to the war. Having felt differently at that moment, I lectured him though I knew I hadn't experienced the war first hand, and didn't, in reality, know what to feel, or have a right to express my beliefs. He was distraught, I felt ashamed, and by the time I woke up next day with the aim of apologizing, he had left.
______________
In a respect, this has nothing to do with my life right now. In another, it has a lot to do with my life: thin threads and thin threads.